


New Dawn's Light

by lauren3210



Series: Unforgiven [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, undertones of angry sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-03 23:42:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5311553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lauren3210/pseuds/lauren3210
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six years after the war, Harry spends the day wondering where his life is going, and his relationship with Draco.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Dawn's Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snowgall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowgall/gifts).



> Dear Snowgall, this is a lot shorter than the last story I wrote for you, but I hope you like it anyway! Huge thanks to Gracerene for looking over this for me and helping me make it so much better, and to the mods for a great fest. Happy Holidays everyone!

  
If someone had asked him, before the war, before Voldemort, before _everything,_ what life as an adult would be like, Harry’s not sure he would have known what to say. A ramshackle house and a job at the ministry, maybe; he didn’t have a lot of influences growing up to choose from. It wasn’t something that was ever talked about at school, beyond what career they might like to have, what they might like to do with themselves, _After._

Maybe it was because schools tended to leave that stuff up to their family, or maybe everything just got so hectic that they never got around to it. Hell, maybe nobody actually thought Harry would survive long enough to _know_ what life would be like, _After._ But whatever the reason, there’s now a _Before,_ when he didn’t have a clue about anything, and there’s an _After,_ and Harry is still completely in the dark.

Maybe there should be a different category for some people to fit themselves into, a group called something like, Managed To Survive a War After Watching Loads Of My Friends Die, Now What The Fuck Do I Do? Because Harry’s pretty sure that life as an adult isn’t this hard for everyone. There’s got to be at least a few Muggles out there who know exactly what they’re doing. Or maybe not, maybe he’s wrong and absolutely everybody is floundering as much as he is.

It’s not that he complains about it, because he doesn’t. He’s alive and Voldemort’s dead, and he still has his best friends and a family to call his own. Harry even has a boyfriend. Occasionally. When they’re not trying to kill each other, anyway. It’s just that life had been complicated enough for Harry from the first moment he can remember, and he’d left off thinking about life _After_ until it actually was _after._ And then he found out that it wasn’t going to get any less complicated and that, well, that kind of pisses him off, a little, that even at the age of twenty three, he’s still wondering what it would be like to have an easy life.

It helps to know he’s not the only one, though, as selfish as that sounds. Ron still gets mood swings, where all he wants to do is shout about how unfair the world is, how Fred and so many other people deserved so much more than the life they were given. He and Harry tend to spend those days drowning in a bottle of Firewhisky, when Ron’s not angry with Harry along with everyone else, that is. Hermione still has days where her parents forget who she is all over again, and Ron and Harry can do nothing as she flips frantically through books, trying to fix them once and for all, until she eventually wears herself out and they can take turns holding her. Molly still cries sometimes when they all turn up for Sunday lunch, and she remembers all over again why there’s one less person sitting at the table. Neville still goes and sits in the Room of Requirement sometimes, just to remember how much it helped them all.

And then there’s Harry and Draco.

It had seemed so simple, at the time. Harry was lost, Draco was lost, so why not be lost together? Draco had had everything he’d ever been taught to believe in ripped away from him, had been forced to realise all the bad choices that had been made for him, that he’d continued to make himself. Harry had found out that he had been nothing more than a pawn in a war he hadn’t ever truly understood. Both of them had had their pasts turned inside out so thoroughly that a future, any kind of future, seemed an impossibility. So why not walk through limbo together?

It made sense, at the time, during those months when everyone was still numb with shock, standing still and letting the arrival of that elusive _After_ sink in. And it still makes sense. Sometimes. When they work, it’s the best relationship Harry could ever imagine. But when they don’t, well. Sometimes Harry thinks they could start another war and bring the whole world down with them.

Apparently, spending the first eighteen years of your life being raised by pure-blood supremacists isn’t the easiest thing to get over. It can take a while for the word _Mudblood_ to fully work its way out of your vocabulary, and the faint sneer you used to pull around Hufflepuffs never completely goes away. There are times when the snobbery comes off Draco in waves so strong that Harry honestly doesn’t know whether to laugh at him or thump him. Most of the time he does both, just to be safe. There are times when he’s so sad that Harry can’t be around him in case Draco pulls him down with him. Times when he’s angry, at his parents, at himself, at _Harry,_ so full of rage that his magic reacts in bursts of wildly unpredictable flares, and Harry has to hide Draco’s wand, just in case he does something that he can’t come back from. He’s already toed that line too many times. Times when he’s guilty, quiet and still, and Harry doesn’t know what to do with him then.

He’s not the only difficult one in their relationship, as Hermione often points out, mainly when Harry crashes into their little flat in a fit of rage because _Draco said this_ or _Draco’s done that._ Harry get angry too, sometimes, over the things that happened, the people they lost, the things he went through. He gets quiet and still too, sometimes, when he remembers that he wasn’t supposed to have any of this, and now that he does, he doesn’t know what to do with it, how to make the most of it, to honour the people who no longer can. Harry gets sad too, sometimes, and for some reason that seems to come out as anger as well.

Today is one of those days for him. It’s the sixth anniversary of Dobby’s death, and six years ago they were fighting for their lives inside Malfoy Manor. Harry left home early that morning, before the sun had even come up. Draco had already left, because he knows what day it is and he knows that Harry’s going to be sad-slash-angry all day. They’ve come up with routines like these, mostly without talking about them, for the days that they know are going to affect them more than others. Harry avoids Draco on June 17th, the day his father was sentenced to life in Azkaban. Neither of them stay in their flat for the whole first week of May, choosing instead to be as far away from each other as possible. There are lots of dates that they have to avoid each other for. Harry doesn’t think he’ll ever know how to change that.

Harry’s been at Shell Cottage since the early hours of the morning, watching the sun rise over the little headstone they made for Dobby. There were so many deaths that year, and in the years before it, but for some reason this is the one that Harry remembers the most clearly. Maybe it was because he died in Harry’s arms, maybe it was because out of all of them, Dobby was truly the most innocent, the most undeserving of such a fate. Maybe it was because he was one of the last in a long line of people who died while trying to protect Harry. Harry doesn’t know, and he’s not sure it matters. He just spends the day out here, where it’s so peaceful, so calm and still, where he can sit and remember everyone who sacrificed so much, that he would have a chance to be here years later. He gets angry too, angry at Voldemort, at his followers, at Dumbledore, and yes, at Draco. Because he was also there that night. He might not have given Harry up, but they both know that was due more to fear than a conscience. 

Harry sits there all day, watching the sun move across the sky, shining down on wet sand and faded footprints, the sea breaking gently against the shore. It’s cold, but he doesn’t mind; he savours it, uses the cool spray carried to him on the wind to calm the angry fever that burns through him. It’s days like these that Harry feels most lost, stumbling through life with nowhere to go, in the cold expanse of _After._

The sun begins to dip below the horizon before he’s really ready to leave, but Harry stands up anyway, brushes sand from his jeans and gives Dobby’s grave one last, long look. He’ll be back again next year, he knows, but he still thinks the same wish he thinks every year: that next time he visits it will be with appreciation for their sacrifice, instead of a vague sense that he should have joined them already. He’d made the choice not to, and now every year he wished to finally work out what to do with that decision.

Harry Apparates back to their flat, the last rays of the sun shimmering a golden light across the sea. His blood is still simmering with the anger he’s felt all day, a low burn in his stomach and behind his eyes that he knows by now makes him quick to lose his temper, to snap at anyone who comes too close. It’s why he stays away, keeps to himself until he can force his body to relax enough to let sleep soothe away the last of the grief and purposelessness, at least for a little while. Everyone knows to leave him alone today, no fire-calls or Patronuses looking for him, no invites to dinner or a few drinks down the pub. Which is why it surprises Harry when he walks into the bedroom and finds Draco there.

Draco looks up from where he’s rifling through the wardrobe as he hears Harry come in, his grey eyes wide. “S-sorry,” he stutters, “I forgot my- I thought I’d have time to…”

Harry can tell the kind of mood Draco is in from the moment their eyes catch. Sometimes their mood swings clash with predictable fire, hissing matches that end in bloody lips and yelled recriminations. Sometimes they’re sad and listless together, curling up on the sofa and staring off at nothing, each glad of the anchor the other provides. Sometimes they both feel so guilty that they can barely look at each other, each certain that they’ll see only blame in the other’s eyes.

Sometimes their moods don’t coincide. Sometimes Draco’s anger makes Harry even more sad, sometimes Harry’s guilt makes Draco even angrier. They fight, they cry, they fold in on themselves, and wait until they can come together again. 

Today is not one of those times.

Today Harry is angry, and Draco is guilty. Harry can tell by the wideness of Draco’s grey eyes, the way his tongue runs almost constantly across his bottom lip, the tense lines in his shoulders and down his back. It makes Harry’s rage build without his permission, makes him think stupid things that he _knows_ are stupid but can’t make himself stop.

There are times that their moods don’t coincide, and it works between them perfectly.

Harry stalks across the bedroom, a dark, twisted part of him delighting in the way Draco takes an involuntary step back. His shoulders collide with the wardrobe door, stopping his retreat, but it doesn’t make a difference because by then Harry is on him, pushing into him. Harry’s not as short as he used to be, now only an inch or so below Draco’s height, and he’s broader around the chest and shoulders. He uses his advantage without thinking twice about it, shoves Draco so hard into the heavy wardrobe that it rocks off its feet and smacks into the wall behind it with a dull thump.

The look on Draco’s face, that says he’s been expecting this, waiting for the moment Harry would turn on him, is the only thing that stops Harry from letting the anger take him over completely. He can still feel it, buzzing under his skin and urging him to _break,_ to _hurt,_ but his lips are gentle when they meet Draco’s, parted in shock and braced for pain.

Harry can’t keep it all tamped down, and as gentle as the kiss is his hands aren’t, reaching up without asking for his permission to fist tight in Draco’s hair, in the material of his t shirt. He pushes closer, until their bodies are aligned, until he feels Draco’s hands tentatively circle his hips. The low grade buzz of anger changes tempo, turns into lust as it fizzes through his veins, and Harry kisses Draco until he no longer wants to _break_ or _hurt,_ and instead wants to _claim._

He pushes and pulls Draco towards the bed and Draco follows willingly, mouths desperate and disconnecting only when clothing gets in their way. They’re both naked by the time they crash on top of the covers, legs tangled and hands gripping, bruises already forming on jaws, necks, collarbones. Their movements are frantic yet unrushed, fingers digging in hard and teeth biting sharply, how much they both want it warring with how much they want to _keep_ it.

And Harry does want to keep it, he realises, as he pushes a knee between Draco’s, spreading him wide. He wants to know that this thing they have together is really _something,_ that it’s not just a thing they fell into together because they were lost. That they’re not just sailing along together through this fog of uncertainty.

He knows Draco feels the same, can see it in the way he bears down on Harry’s slick fingers, hips moving in counterthrust. His eyes are still wide, but the sheen of guilt has faded, being rapidly replaced with a determination Harry knows is written all over his own face.

It feels so good to push inside, to feel the tight clench of Draco’s body, the way it fits Harry better than anything else he’s come across since the war. Nothing feels quite right these days, as though there’s something missing, some vital part that Harry can’t quite grab onto no matter how hard he tries. But this is different; Draco’s fingers digging into Harry’s back, the slick of sweat between their stomachs, the low noises slipping from between Draco’s lips to Harry’s ears, sizzling down his spine. There’s _nothing_ missing here, and Harry looks into those wide grey eyes, needing to know if Draco feels it too.

“Harry,” Draco says, a whisper that shivers across the sweaty skin of Harry’s neck, and he knows he does, knows Draco understands what’s happening here. After years of listlessness, of feeling lost, they’re both finally making a _choice._

Harry thrusts his hips harder, sharper, mouth falling open against Draco’s collarbone, sucking bruise into the pale skin that he knows will take days to fade. His fingers dig into Draco’s hips as he holds him tight. They don’t usually do this. Sometimes their coupling is tentative, questioning. Asking each other if it’s okay that they take this, when both of them have already lost so much. Sometimes it’s hard and furious, less about each other than it is about themselves, a need to feel something other than the abyss of _After._ It’s been frantic before, but not like this, not so intense, so all encompassing that Harry feels like he could burn up from the inside out and take the world out with him if he doesn’t get closer.

Draco cranes his neck up, one hand slipping from Harry’s back to grab a fistful of his hair instead, pulls him down into a kiss that’s all harsh breathing and sharp teeth, a kiss that’s as full of an intent to claim as the hard thrusting of Harry’s hips. Harry feels the tension in Draco’s body against his, feels how every muscle clenches and tightens, thighs going rigid and his back arching, and then he’s coming between them, a hot rush of sticky fluid that coats both of their bellies. “Yes, Harry,” he whispers, and Harry can’t hold on any longer, despite how much he wants to stay there forever, breathing in Draco’s soft sounds and feeling the hot clench of his body surrounding him. His hips stutter, one last push all the way in, and rides the wave as everything rushes out of him. He gives everything to Draco, all of his anger, his lust, his frustration and confusion, until there’s nothing left. And Draco takes it all, holds Harry in the cradle of his arms and legs, holds on as everything washes away.

It’s hours later, dawn just a few minutes away, before either of them speak. They use the time instead to map out each other’s bodies, slowly and carefully, as though it’s something they haven’t ever done in the six years they’ve been doing this. Maybe they haven’t, maybe neither of them were ready to really look. They make love over and over, and that’s what it is, not sex, not now, because it feels like a wall has been broken down between them, and now everything is new and different.

Sunlight peeks through the curtains, pale hues of pink and orange, and Draco’s hand is curved around Harry’s jaw, thumb pressing lightly at his bottom lip, when he says, “We should have been doing this from the start.”

Harry doesn’t bother to make the obvious joke; he knows what Draco means. They should have grieved together, learned how to navigate the _After_ together, instead of pushing each other away when they thought it might be too hard. Or maybe they’d known, even back when it first started, that this was a thing they’d want to keep, and they’d hidden themselves away to make sure they wouldn’t break it before they had a chance to realise it.

“We’ll do it from now on,” Harry says.

They snuggle closer to the heat of each other’s body, and let the new dawn’s light warm the room around them. And Harry thinks that maybe purposeless is the whole point of _After._ That maybe he’s been looking so hard for for something to move on to, he didn’t realise that there was nowhere else he had to be.

Maybe they weren’t lost at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are very much appreciated here or on [LiveJournal](http://hd-owlpost.livejournal.com/)


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